All Good Things
by Mickleditch
Summary: Helga has been wrong about a number of things. (Gruber x Helga, short little missing scene from the final episode, 'A Winkle In Time'.)


Disclaimer: 'Allo 'Allo and all characters belong to David Croft, Jeremy Lloyd, and the BBC.

* * *

Helga could not speak a word of English. Somehow, she had never got round to taking any lessons; it had never seemed to be very important when they were always being assured that this time next year, everybody else would be speaking German anyway. Fortunately, the British commander was at least competent already, if not fluent, and General von Klinkerhoffen had used the few English phrases that he was familiar with to clarify the situation, which was that he was surrendering with all arms and without any argument whatsoever. His excuse was that he wanted to avoid any loss of life, but, as she had once overheard the Colonel muttering, General von Klinkerhoffen would shop his own grandmother if it would save his skin in the long run, and so he wasn't likely to think twice about doing it to the men of the Nouvion garrison.

Or to Colonel von Strohm, Lieutenant Gruber and herself, all of whom were now following him to the police station to be temporarily confined in the cells there. It was until the officers could be questioned, apparently; shouldn't take too many weeks.

"Perhaps we should ask if we can be locked in our rooms at the chateau, instead," the Colonel suggested, in vain hope.

Lieutenant Gruber's shoulders twitched, uncomfortably. "But if they explore the chateau, they may decide that the dungeons would be a better place."

"I have a good mind to lock you in there myself," the General said, through gritted teeth. "Our defenses have lost control of the coastline, we have lost control of the district, and, most importantly, you have lost the painting that was to be our pensions, and it is undoubtedly gone for good!"

The Colonel's frog face moulded itself into a shocked expression. "But General, I thought that you intended all along to send the painting to the Fuhrer."

"I believe the British expression, Colonel, is 'Bollocks to the Fuhrer'."

When he and his men had entered the cafe, the British commander had been unprepared to find Helga. He had questioned the Colonel about her as he held the door open, ready to escort them.

"Who is the female private?"

The Colonel had straightened, proudly. "She is my secretary."

The commander leaned towards one of his officers, and said a few words in English that Helga didn't understand. It sounded something like 'bit on the side'. They were probably complimenting her, she thought. Inwardly, she debated if she might be able to use her feminine charms to secure an early release, but for the first time, she felt genuinely uncertain about what that might entail. German men were one thing; she knew German men, and she could have them eating out of the palm of her hand, any day of the week. British men might be another thing entirely, especially when they were the victors and she was their prisoner.

She wondered if they were anything like Russians.

It was a bright summer day, but now, walking towards the station, Helga suddenly shivered.

The commander had ushered General von Klinkerhoffen and the Colonel on ahead, and he fell back in their wake, drawing parallel with Lieutenant Gruber. "You are von Klinkerhoffen's ADC?"

"Yes."

The man gave a short nod. "All German personnel of officer rank are to be investigated, to determine whether they are to undergo court martial for war crimes." In response to Gruber's truly horrified expression - the General had been shooting quite a lot of peasants, after all - he added, "It is only a formality, really."

"And what will you do with her?" Gruber asked, cautiously.

"Von Strohm's secretary? She may have had sight of incriminating papers. Therefore she will also be held, but she will be separated from the officers."

Gruber glanced at Helga, and he evidently read something in her face that she hadn't realized showed so clearly, because for a moment or two, he hesitated. Then he cleared his throat a little. "I would strongly prefer that we be kept together. The Colonel's secretary is also my wife."

Helga almost gawked at him. She had to tell herself to close her mouth before it was too late, but she managed to do it, because despite her disbelief at what she had just heard Gruber say, she knew that he was saying it for a reason and that he was mentally crossing his fingers that she would play along with it. Nothing felt like it made sense. Here was Lieutenant Gruber, who was inclined to collapse as quickly as one of Madame Edith's souffles under a stern enough gaze, looking an enemy officer in the eye and lying through his teeth when they were all already up to their necks in it. She understood very little about why he was doing it, but she knew, for now, not to contradict him.

The British commander, who clearly knew one when he saw one, raised an eyebrow. "Your wife?"

"We married six months ago, in the little French church down the lane. It was a small, private affair."

"I see." The other man looked thoughtful. "You are aware that it is against regulations on both the British and German sides to keep male and female prisoners together, and that you are asking me to break those regulations?"

"Yes," Gruber answered, simply. "I am aware."

The commander contemplated him. "I will see what I can do," he said, after a moment. Then he turned on his heel to march back to the head of the armed guard.

Helga lowered her voice, although the other British commandos had given no indication that they understood any German. "Have you gone mad? Why did you tell them that we were married? They will soon find out that you were lying, anyway!"

"By the looks of some of the British, they will have been desperate for company for some time. They will probably take whatever they can get."

She did not try to slap him straight away, more because it would probably get her into trouble than from a lack of desire to do so. "What is that supposed to mean?" she hissed.

"Only that I thought that it would be safer for you if they believed that you had a husband here."

Caught off guard, Helga hesitated, her ire faltering. Suddenly she no longer felt certain about anything. Just a few hours ago, Herr Flick had swindled her out of her share of the ten million francs and been perfectly content to leave her to the British while he and von Smallhausen legged it down the river. He did not love her, and, to her surprise, she did not care. She hadn't cared very much, she realised, for some time.

She had found Herr Flick so exciting, so different, and he had turned out to be no different to the rest of them. When they had all been up against the wall, he had dropped her faster than she had ever been willing to drop anything of her own.

Lieutenant Gruber did not love her, either, probably because she neither had a moustache or smelled of Brie. She wondered, bleakly, if anybody did. But it was Gruber who was now trying to protect her. Gruber who had taken a very firm hold of her arm and drawn her against his side, the airman's uniform bulky at her hip.

"We must act as though we are newlyweds," he said, quietly. "Stay close beside me all the way there."

One of the guards nudged Gruber in the back with the butt of his gun, and he jumped slightly. He was afraid, and Helga had never been able to be attracted to men who openly showed fear; anything she perceived as weakness in them. And yet, afraid as he was, he was willing to do this for her. Perhaps that made him stronger than if he had never been afraid at all.

Sidelong, she examined his profile. There is something about him, she thought. If he wasn't - if he could fancy me - I think that I could start to care for him a great deal.

For the first time, she wanted him to fancy her, very badly.

But Lieutenant Gruber had always been such a complete Nancy boy.

His hand slid into hers, and, obediently, she laced their fingers together. Slowly, they started to walk again in the June sunshine towards a French _gendarmerie_ and the end of the world.


End file.
